


dull my blades (I am tired of the hunt)

by ashers_kiss



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky/Nat Week, F/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His touch is still snow-cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dull my blades (I am tired of the hunt)

**Author's Note:**

> [stripystockings](stripystockings.tumblr.com) asked me (ages ago, before all the moving malarkey, sorry darling!) for "Bucky/Natasha comforting each other over shared experiences, helping each other with self-blame after TWS". I tried to stick to a three-sentence format, but these two are so full of nuance and tiny little actions, that didn't quite work. I still like how it ended up though.
> 
> Also for [Bucky/Nat Week](http://fuckyeahbuckynatasha.tumblr.com/post/113695372873/welcome-to-the-official-start-of-buckynat-week). Unbeta'd, because there's been so much on, so proceed at your own risk.
> 
> Title (ever so slightly adapted) from [Your Mouth Is a Church, I Forgot How to Pray](http://dark-siren.tumblr.com/post/113261486091/my-love-take-these-walls-these-wars) by Jeanann Verlee. (Full poem [here](http://www.nailedmagazine.com/poetry/poetry-suite-jeanann-verlee/).)

His touch is still snow-cold, trailing over the curve of her ribs, lingering on the ones he broke himself (years ago, lifetimes ago; Natasha’s gained more than her share of broken bones since she burned the Red Room to the ground, and she's not the only one).

His fingers stutter over the scar above her hip, and when he looks up, his eyes are wide, full of ghosts. “Odessa?” he asks, like it hurts him. She covers his hand with hers and does not look away.

“Odessa,” she confirms, and the breath he shudders out is warm as he presses his forehead to her stomach. Natasha runs her fingers through still too-long hair, and waits.


End file.
